


Reinvent Yourself

by eledhwenlin



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eledhwenlin/pseuds/eledhwenlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon has to figure out how to be a lyricist. Spencer helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reinvent Yourself

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [(fanart) Reinvent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/368935) by [Crazybutsound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazybutsound/pseuds/Crazybutsound). 



> I want to thank my betas, lalejandra and roebling, who made this story better, and melusina for listening to me whine when I was stuck. Thank you, darlings. <3

The first few days after the announcement feels deceptively calm. The announcement is just the last step of a long process. First there are contracts to draw up and sign, then they have to consider pulling out of the tour (to which Brendon and Spencer say, emphatically, no). They've spent almost an eternity writing the announcement, deciding who should go first, who should say what and so on.

The difficult part is over, Brendon thinks. God, he is so fucking wrong.

"So," Pete says. "What are your plans now?" They're lounging around Pete's pool, just hanging out. They came back from the last tour date two weeks ago, which is apparently as long as Pete can go without hanging all over Brendon. 

"I think we're gonna go surfing tomorrow," Spencer says. "The tide's supposed to be pretty good."

"You both know that's not what I mean," Pete says. He's pointing at the space between Brendon and Spencer. "You owe me another record."

Brendon groans. "You didn't tell us this was going to be a business meeting."

Pete kicks Brendon's foot. "It's not," he says. "This is just a friend asking you what you plan to do now."

"You saying we owe you a record sounds pretty business-like," Spencer says. 

"We'll—I'll figure something out," Brendon says. "Just ... Not right now."

"Okay," Pete says. "Okay." There's a small pause, then, "So surfing tomorrow?"

Brendon smiles. "Surfing sounds good."

~~~***~~~

The first time Brendon sits down to write, he gives up after ten minutes. All his lyrics sound trite and superficial.

Brendon throws the notebook over the back of the couch in frustration and lies down to watch some TV. Ryan's lyrics sound so much better—more elaborate. Even now, post-Panic, he manages to pack a lyrical punch. His lyrics make people think and ponder then, trying to get the hidden meanings behind the words. Brendon feels like he's falling a mile short of that. There's no sense in even trying, Brendon thinks. Nothing he'll ever write will compare to Ryan's songs. 

Brendon falls asleep to Spongebog. When he wakes up, Spencer's sitting in the other chair. 

"Hey," Brendon mumbles.

"Oh, you're awake," Spencer says. "I was wondering whether you'd smoked up alone, but I figured you wouldn't hog your stuff like that."

"Sharing is caring," Brendon mumbles. 

"Yep," Spencer says. "What about a bowl now?"

Brendon snorts. The answer is obvious, he thinks. "Shane's given me some of the really good weed," he says, as he hoists himself up into an upright position. Then he notices that Spencer's leafing through a notebook. _Brendon's_ notebook. The one he uses for his attempts at lyrics. 

Brendon's up and ripping the notebook out of Spencer's hands before he's really aware of it.

"Hey!" Spencer gets up and reaches for the notebook, but Brendon tries his best to hold it outside of Spencer's reach. "I was reading that."

"That's not ready to be shared yet," Brendon says. 

Spencer wraps himself around Brendon and, damn his long arms, he's managed to grab the book back. "Tell me a good reason why I shouldn't read this," he says. "Any good reason and I won't."

"They’re not ready yet," Brendon says. "It all sucks and I don't know how to fix it. And until I fix it, you can't read it."

Spencer stands absolutely still, but then he lets his arms sink. "Brendon," he says, his hands on Brendon's hips. "Maybe it's—maybe you don't have to fix anything."

"Oh, shut up," Brendon says, crankily. "These—they're nothing like Ryan's. Everyone's going to hate them."

"Maybe—"

"I'm going to pack a bowl now," Brendon says. 

Spencer sighs. "Okay," he says. "I'll let you change the topic—for now. But next time we gotta talk."

Brendon moves away without further comment. He's holding on tightly to the notebook, relieved for the moment. He doesn't want to think about any of this any longer. 

Thankfully, that's exactly where the weed comes in. 

Just a little while later, Brendon's mellow and relaxed. "God, I love weed," he says.

Spencer snaps his fingers and Brendon gives him the bowl. "I love Shane," Spencer says. "Where does he even find this stuff?"

"He keeps his sources a secret," Brendon says. "Like—like key witnesses or something."

Spencer giggles. "Witnesses to a crime."

Brendon blinks. Then he starts laughing so hard he falls off the couch. 

"Hey, are you okay?" Spencer says, but he sounds so far away and Brendon doesn't care. He's curling up on the rug Regan insisted he put under his coffee table, guffawing quietly.

"Brendon?" Suddenly Spencer's there, leaning right over Brendon. 

"Hi," Brendon says. He reaches up and pats Spencer's cheek. "I like your beard."

Spencer laughs. "You are so high."

"Your beard is so soft." Brendon thinks he could sink his fingers into Spencer's beard. Maybe even his entire hand.

Spencer hauls Brendon upright. His face is so close now and Brendon involuntarily leans forward and rubs his cheek against Spencer's beard. "So soft and cuddly," Brendon mumbles, turning his face into Spencer's. 

Spencer laughs and wraps his arms around Brendon. "So high," he says. But his embrace is warm and it feels good. Brendon feels good. 

"I feel good," Brendon says. Then, "I'm hungry."

"Pizza," Spencer says.

"Pizza." Brendon thinks he could eat an entire pig. But neither he nor Spencer gets up. It's like they're caught in their hug bubble, like neither of them wants to let go. Brendon sits there and thinks that everything's okay right now – for now.

~~~***~~~

The next time Brendon starts to write and fails, he has an ingenious idea. At least he thinks so until he puts his plan into action.

The problem with smoking up, Brendon thinks, is that he's goal-oriented until he's taken his first hit. But after the second, the third at the latest, Brendon gets lost in that sweet fog of relaxation. 

He's pretty sure whatever he writes down doesn't make any sense. He doesn't even know if it's even English. Or written in the English alphabet. No, wait, it's—it's not the English alphabet. It's Latin, isn't it?

Brendon is sure the Romans didn't have this much anxiety in their lives. They only needed to care about olives and wars and shit.

Brendon giggles and turns around to tell Spencer—but Spencer's not there. Right. That's because Brendon wanted to write. He wanted to write, but everything he wrote sucked, so he smoked up. Alone. 

It makes sense to call Spencer right then. If Brendon calls him, Brendon's not alone anymore, right?

"Brendon?" Spencer sounds distracted. There's noise in the background—too loud to just be the TV. 

"Heyyyyy, Spennnnnnnnnnnnnnnncer," Brendon says. Then for good measure, he says again, "Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyy." It's like all the words have been stretched and go on and on and on. He's tempted to say it a third time, but Spencer sighs.

"Gimme a second," Spencer says and—that doesn't make sense. Brendon's willing to give Spencer way more than a second. "Yeah, it's Brendon, Mom. Just a moment, 'kay?"

A door closes and the noise suddenly dies away. "Are you home?" Brendon didn't know Spencer was going back home. Or did he? Did he just forget about it? Fuck, he's a shitty friend. Spencer's been pretty stressed out because his dad hasn't been doing so well lately, and Brendon should—he should be more supportive, he thinks, and not ignore Spencer's problems because it's not something either of them can fix.

"Yeah, I'm. It's—I'm sorry, I should've called, but Mom called and." Spencer sounds tired and sad, and Brendon hurts for him. 

"I'm sorry," Brendon says, although he doesn't really know what he's sorry for. For not being there? For being too high to be of any use? For bothering Spencer when he's got other things on his mind?

"Brendon," Spencer says. "Are you all right?"

Brendon nods, before he realises that Spencer can't see him. "Yeah," he says. "I’m just writing."

"Just writing, huh?" Spencer laughs quietly. "It's that easy now?"

Brendon stares at his notebook. The words start to swim in front of his eyes until he's not sure he's even written _anything_. "No," he says, and his happy buzz turns sour. He wanted to make things easier on himself and he's just fucked up even more.

"Brendon?"

"No!" Brendon feels like crying. "I'm fucking everything up," he says. "I'm a fucking loser."

Spencer's silent. Brendon wonders if he's hung up. Brendon couldn't think of any reason why Spencer shouldn't. Brendon’s such a failure.

"When I come back," Spencer says, "we gotta talk. If you want to or not, but. We gotta figure this out, okay?"

"Okay," Brendon says, although he's pretty sure that there's nothing to figure out. Brendon's not a lyricist, okay? He just writes silly little ... _ditties_. 

"I’ll call you tonight," Spencer says. "I can’t stay on the phone right now, we're—we were just about to leave for the hospital. Drink some water, okay? And order something to eat."

Food sounds pretty awesome, despite the fact Brendon's stomach feels tight. "Okay," Brendon repeats mechanically.

"Talk to you later," Spencer says. He still sounds sad and tired, but there's a fondness in his voice. Like he's not about to call it quits with Brendon because Brendon's high as a kite and can't write a fucking song to save his life. 

_I love you_ , Brendon thinks as Spencer hangs up on him. Then he gets dizzy and has to lie down on the floor.

~~~***~~~

"Did you know that my ceiling's all swirly?"

Dallon pauses. "Swirly," he says. 

"Yeah," Brendon repeats. He's squinting at his ceiling. Actually he's been squinting at it since he decided to lie down—was that a few hours ago or a few minutes? Fuck, he doesn't remember. Anyway, after he'd called Spencer. 

There's a reason Brendon can't call Spencer right now, although it's only a vague notion. Brendon had to tell someone about the swirly ceiling though, and Dallon seemed like a good choice. He seems like the kind of dude who'd appreciate that shit. Like that video with the cat and dog.

"Hey," Brendon says, about to ask if Dallon still has that link because Brendon sucks at favoriting shit and he loses links to interesting stuff all the fucking time, but Dallon interrupts him. 

"On a scale of 1 to 10, how high are you?"

The swirls are changing colour. It's like Brendon's own private laser show right there. "Dunno," Brendon says. 

Dallon's awesome. Dallon doesn't sigh. He just says, "A 10 then." 

Brendon thinks this is the part where he should protest, but the swirls are glowing now. 

There's a scuffle and Brendon hears a high young voice through the line. "No," Dallon says, "I'll be right back, Amelie. Just gotta talk to Uncle Brendon real quick and then we'll have dinner, okay?"

Brendon feels immediately guilty. Dallon has a family. Brendon shouldn't bother him with swirls.

"I'm sorry," Brendon says and hangs up without waiting for an answer. 

He's fucking up so much. He interrupts Dallon during family dinner and—actually, Brendon's pretty hungry. He cranes his head: yeah, the take-out menu is right there on his fridge. 

The swirls are not helpful in bringing the menu any closer to Brendon. Or Brendon any closer to the menu. Don't swirls have some power to fuck with the –the space-time continuum or shit? They should be able to transport him into the kitchen at least. 

They don't. 

Brendon dials the pizza guy. He's desperately craving some deep-dish pizza, and L.A. pizza can't compare, but he's too hungry to bother with Chinese. He just needs _food_.

~~~***~~~

Brendon's never been this hung-over in his life before. He feels like Mim in _The Sword in the Stone_ , cursing the sun, because, _motherfucker_ , that is way too bright.

Brendon dimly remembers getting his pizza. He thinks the delivery guy was judging him. And the pizza (he has no idea what kind he'd ordered) made him thirsty, so beer seemed like a good idea. 

He's pretty sure he's not this hung-over from just one beer. But to check he has to get up and his body is not on board with that. 

When Brendon finally stumbles out of bed (nature's pressing call preventing him from getting more sleep), it's after noon. He feels way too shitty to write even his own name, much less a song. 

Watching Comedy Central is much easier. Brendon doesn't even shower, just falls onto his couch and pulls his throw blanket over himself. Ginger gave it to him, which reminds Brendon that there was something with Spencer. A phone call. 

Brendon glances at the empties littering his coffee table. He guesses that Spencer did not call him. 

Then his phone rings. Brendon groans, because his head feels like it's going to explode. But it's Spencer's ring tone and Brendon can't just not pick it up.

"You answered your phone, so you're not dead," Spencer says in lieu of a greeting. 

Brendon answers, "Nnnnnnngh."

"I almost feel sorry for you," Spencer says. "Not quite, though."

Brendon pulls his blanket over his head. "I feel sorry for myself," he mumbles.

Spencer's quiet. He's not hanging up, but he's just ... not talking, so Brendon must've done something last night.

"What—" Brendon has to swallow and clear his thought before he can continue. "Is there—what should I be sorry for?"

Spencer sighs. "Don't worry," he says. "It's—it's nothing."

"Spencer..."

"No," Spencer says. "Just. You were high, you didn't mean it, it's okay. Just—remember to drink some water and eat something, okay? I'll be back in L.A. tomorrow."

"Okay," Brendon says, and Spencer hangs up. Brendon stares at his phone, but it's not offering up any insights. He pulls up his last calls and, yeah, he called Spencer late last night – oops – rather, early this morning. Unfortunately his phone won't tell him _what_ he said. 

Fuck it, Brendon thinks. He pulls his blanket back over his head and wills himself back to sleep. He'll figure out this mess later.

~~~***~~~

To say that Brendon's a bit tense the next time he sits down with the express purpose of Writing A Song (that's how he's started to think of it, capital letters looming over him ominously) would be an understatement.

Actually, Brendon thinks he might throw up any minute now. Like, his stomach is _hurting_. He must've eaten something wrong. 

The longer he stares at his notebook, the worse the nausea becomes. Maybe the white is aggravating it. 

It was probably that box of Chinese. Brendon knows he shouldn't eat stuff from his fridge if he can’t remember when he put it in his fridge, but it did smell all right and it looked okay and it was just—noodles. Noodles with something. 

He thinks he still has some Pepto-bismol or whatever in his medicine cabinet. Back when, well –before the split, Spencer went through that stuff by the gallon and he's always kept a back-up bottle in Brendon's house. 

Brendon hopes that the pepto-shit isn't expired because, fuck, he can't remember the last time he had cramps like this. Oh, no, that's a lie, he _does_ remember: it was that horrible bout of the stomach flu on tour, when Brendon for real felt like he was dying. 

Brendon doesn't want to be sick, whether it's food poisoning or the stomach flu. He doesn't have time for this shit. They've been home for two months already and soon Pete will want to know what they want to do about the album and Brendon's got _nothing_ , only white pages in his notebook.

He barely makes it to the downstairs bathroom in time. 

Then he goes back to bed, a bucket at his side in case he has to go again. But lying down seems to help. Food poisoning, Brendon decides. He'll never order Chinese again.

~~~***~~~

It starts out as a joke. Brendon randomly finds an old e-mail thread with quotes from Pete's blogs. He stares at the words ( _put another "x" on the calander_ ) and thinks that Ryan loved Pete's lyrics. Pete's words _matter_ and—they sound good.

It won't work anyway, he thinks, as he opens his song-writing notebook. He just copies down the first few lines and then tries to rearrange them. 

The thing is, it's kind of fun. These aren't Brendon's words and he can interpret them at will and just play with them. And when he wants to say something that's not covered by the few quotes he's pulled up, he writes something new. 

He realises afterwards that he's been humming something under his breath all this time. 

Melodies have never been Brendon's problems. He gets his guitar, sits cross-legged until his legs go numb, but he's got the first verse and part of the bridge when his phone rings.

"I'm five minutes away from you with take-out," Spencer says. "Please wear pants."

"Fuck you," Brendon says. "You like to ogle my ass in my briefs."

"And a shirt, too," Spencer says. "I wouldn't want to lose my appetite because I have to look at your scrawny chest.

"Hey," Brendon protests. He looks down. He's not that scrawny. He thinks. 

Spencer snorts and hangs up. 

Brendon should get up and get plates and beer and stuff. Instead he hunches over his guitar, picking careful notes. 

He startles when something cold touches his neck.

Spencer's grinning at him and prods him again with the bottle of beer. His eyes are twinkling. "What are you writing?"

"Uh, nothing," Brendon says. "Just—some melody." The melody's not much, he thinks, but it's something. It's a start, at least.

Spencer has bought all of Brendon's favourites. Brendon loves him. 

"I love you," he tells Spencer earnestly, not minding that his mouth is full of delicious fried rice.

"You're disgusting," Spencer tells him. But he's grinning, so he can't be serious. 

Brendon digs in. He had skipped lunch in favour of working on that melody and maybe, _maybe_ , he's got something figured out for the end of that bridge, so he's shovelling food into his mouth like it's going out of style. His fingers are itching to try out those notes. 

Spencer snorts. "Dude, have you been starving while I was gone?" He gestures at Brendon with this fork. 

"No," Brendon wants to say, but then he chokes on his food. Spencer raises one eyebrow at him and then helpfully thumps Brendon's back. 

"This is why you shouldn't talk with your mouth full,” he says.

"Shut up," Brendon gasps. He grabs his beer and drinks greedily, swallowing down the rice. 

Spencer doesn't reply. When Brendon looks up, he sees Spencer reading his notebook. 

"Hey," Brendon says. "That's not, uh, done yet."

"It's good," Spencer says, thumbing through the pages. "I like it."

"Yeah." Brendon takes another sip. "I got this idea for the bridge, it's going to go like this—"

Brendon looks at Spencer and he wants to point out what he means, the bridge that's got him so occupied—but Spencer's not checking out the melody. Spencer's reading the fucking stupid shit Brendon made out of Pete's words. 

Brendon makes a grab for it. Then he shoots up straight because he's managed to spill beer all over his pants and, fuck, the beer's _cold_. "Fuck!" But he has the notebook in his hand, which is all that counts.

Spencer blinks at Brendon, confused. "Dude, what the hell?"

"That's not—you shouldn't have read that."

"Why not?" Spencer gets up, holding his hands up in a placating motion. Brendon recognises it, back from when Spencer was in charge of keeping Brendon and Ryan from tearing each other into pieces. He doesn't like the reminder. 

Spencer steps closer until he's standing right in front of Brendon. "B, that's—that song's good." Spencer sounds confused and proud. "It—"

Brendon closes his eyes. His hands are sticky with spilled beer, and his pants are clinging to him, and he feels so shitty because—maybe the song _is_ good, but they're not Brendon's words. 

"It's not mine," he whispers. 

Spencer comes even closer. He smells like General Tso and beer. "It's your writing," he says.

"Yeah, but." Brendon swallows heavily. "I copied that from Pete," he says. "I just—I wanted to see if I could—Pete's a good lyricist, right?"

"Yeah," Spencer says slowly. 

"I thought maybe—if I used—maybe I could write—oh, fuck it."

Brendon throws himself down on the couch like a child throwing a tantrum. He's fucking up everything; he doesn't feel like acting all mature and grown-up now.

Spencer sits down next to him, facing Brendon, one leg drawn up. "But it worked," he says. "I really like that song."

"But it's not _mine_ ," Brendon says. 

"No," Spencer says. "But it could be, like, practising."

Brendon pokes the couch. There's a stain. He should clean it. Or have it cleaned. "Practising," he says. 

"Yeah." Spencer wraps his fingers around Brendon's wrist. "Like guitar practise," he says. "You didn't start out writing your own songs."

"No," Brendon admits. "But—"

"No more buts," Spencer says. "Just try it, okay?"

"What if I can't write my own words?" Brendon says.

Spencer tugs sharply on Brendon's wrist. Brendon jerks up, and his eyes meet Spencer's. "You can," Spencer says. "You've already written songs, what the fuck, Brendon."

"They're not like Ryan's," Brendon says. 

"Do you want to write like Ryan?" Spencer frowns.

"At least Ryan doesn't have any problems writing songs," Brendon says. "I'm just—who wants to listen to that?" He throws the notebook onto the floor. 

"I do," Spencer says. "As long as I can come up with a good drumline for it."

Spencer looks so seriously that Brendon can't help but snark back, "Even a song about chicken tacquitos?"

His answer is a sigh and then Spencer pulls him into a hug. Brendon fights at first, but Spencer wraps his arm around Brendon's shoulders and it's like conditioning, that thing that guy did with those dogs. Brendon relaxes into Spencer because, fuck, Spencer chose _Brendon_ and he's still here and listening to Brendon being emo (hah!). 

"Yeah," Spencer says, his breath brushing past Brendon's ear. "Even a song about chicken tacquitos." He pauses. "You know, if you wrote a songs about bananas and cucumbers, our fanbase would go crazy over the phallic symbols. Just so you know."

"They would," Brendon says. Then he imagines it, himself on stage, straight-faced, singing about how much he likes bananas, and all the girls in first row giggling and fainting. He starts to snicker and then something just _gives_ and he laughs so hard his entire body's shaking and he's gasping for breath. 

Spencer rubs his back, and Brendon leans into him. "I think chicken tacquitos would probably be … less suggestive."

"I guess the rhythm for the phallic vegetables—"

"Bananas are a fruit," Brendon says.

"—vegetables," Spencer continues, "would probably be pretty basic. As long as it's steady." He drums on Brendon's lower back, and Brendon can feel each impact in his entire body.

It's not difficult to relate the rhythm to phallic symbols, and Brendon's turned on immediately. He breathes in deeply, the smell of Spencer's laundry detergent and shampoo, and he thinks, _yes_. It's—not as scary as he always thought it would be. But it's not the time right now. 

Brendon feels calmer now, though. "Thanks," he says.

"No problem." Spencer stretches, dislodging Brendon from his comfortable embrace, and picks up the notebook. He presses it against Brendon's chest until Brendon takes it. "Just try it," he says. "And change your clothes. You smell like a distillery."

Brendon sticks his tongue out at him, but when he stands in his bedroom, kicking off his jeans, he feels as free as he hasn't in _weeks_.

~~~***~~~

"I think I'm done," Brendon says.

Spencer just grunts. Brendon looks up and squints at the TV. Then he tilts his head. "Is this a cooking show or porn?"

"That," Spencer says ominously, "is Nigella." 

The woman on screen is … making a dessert, Brendon thinks. But—"No, really," he says. "Is this porn?"

"She believes that food is sensual," Spencer says.

"Okay, so it _is_ porn," Brendon says.

"Shut up," Spencer says. "Gimme that notebook."

Brendon leans back against the couch and stretches. "Get it yourself." He puts his feet up on the coffee table. "I'm exhausted now from all that work." He's nervous, his stomach fluttery. He just _wrote a song_. He has a chorus and verses and he thinks it's not too shabby. Too bad he had to use someone else's words.

Spencer shakes his head and reaches for the notebook. His arm brushes Brendon's belly, Spencer's cotton shirt soft against Brendon's skin where his own shirt has ridden up. Brendon inadvertently draws in a quick breath. 

And then Spencer opens the notebook and Brendon can't breathe at all for a moment. What if Spencer hates it? What if this entire exercise was for nothing? What if—

"Breathe," Spencer says firmly. He puts his hand on Brendon's arm, rubs his thumb over Brendon's wrist. But he's quiet, _reading_ , and Brendon wishes Spencer would just—say something. Or make a sound. Or even look anything but fiercely focused. 

It seems like an eternity passes before Spencer speaks. Brendon's pretty sure this feels even worse than those ten minutes after he auditioned to play guitar for Brent's band, when he sat alone on the curb outside Spencer's grandmother's house and waited for someone to come and tell him that, no, sorry, it wouldn't work out. When Spencer had come out and told him that he was in, Brendon had given up any pretence of coolness (not that he thought he had any left, not after the Gollum impression; what the fuck had he been thinking?) and hugged Spencer. 

It's always Spencer that he's the most nervous around. Like, only a few months back, when it was clear that whatever they were doing didn't work out, Brendon didn't worry about Ryan or Jon leaving because he expected them to leave. But he'd been skittish as hell around Spencer, until Spencer had taken him out for surfing and sushi and told him in clear words that he wasn't going anywhere.

It's always Spencer, Brendon thinks. He stares at his toes, wriggles them. It's always Spencer.

"Brendon," Spencer says finally. He's still looking at the page, but he sounds—happy, Brendon thinks. "Brendon, this is really good."

"Okay," Brendon says and swallows. "But they're still not my words."

"Oh fuck, give it up for a moment, okay? Brendon, this song is _good_."

Brendon peeks at the notebook. "You think?"

Spencer thwaps Brendon with the notebook and ignores his startled yelp. "No, fucktard, I'm lying to you. I like this song."

Brendon leans against Spencer, his head on Spencer's shoulder. He looks at the page, but the words are out of focus. "What now?" 

"Now you show me what you copied from Pete."

In the end it's less than what Brendon thought. 

"Huh." He taps his pen against the page, counting the words again. "Do you think—"

"You should go and ask Pete," Spencer says. "But I don't think he would mind."

Brendon puts down the notebook. "Tomorrow," he says. "I'll call him tomorrow." 

"Okay," Spencer says. He takes a big gulp from his beer. "Actually I think we should go over."

Brendon grins. "You just want to play with Bronx." Spencer's absolutely smitten with Bronx, which Brendon totally gets. 

"I plead the fifth," Spencer says. But he's grinning. "I just think we should go and see our boss."

Brendon laughs. He feels relaxed, the tight ball of anxiety in his chest smaller now. He wrote a fucking song, even with help from his friends (he can't suppress a giggle at that thought) and—it feels really fucking good. 

In that moment it's easy to lean over and wrap his arms around Spencer and plant a kiss right on Spencer's cheek. Brendon hides his face in Spencer's neck and holds on for dear life. "Thank you," he mumbles.

Spencer grows still, but he sneaks his arm around Brendon's waist, pulling him in closer. "What for?"

"For being here," Brendon says.

"Brendon—"

"I know, I know," Brendon says. "This isn't about the split, okay? I'm just—happy that you're here."

"Brendon," Spencer says, and his voice sounds a bit strained. "I'm, uh, happy to be here, too."

It's also frighteningly easy for Brendon to lean up and kiss Spencer on the lips. It's short, just a soft press of his lips against Spencer's, but Brendon feels it in his entire body, his nerve endings singing, echoing like the beginning of an avalanche. 

Brendon pulls away, breathing hard, and it takes him a moment to realise that he's waiting for Spencer to say yes. He's shaking with need and desire and just—one day Brendon will learn to think before acting, before hurtling himself head-first into situations he can't control, because if Spencer says no now, pushes Brendon away gently and laughs it all off, Brendon will have to crawl into a hole and die because—

"It's always been you," Brendon whispers. "Spencer."

Spencer's looking at him and Brendon suddenly feels this barrage of words piling up on his tongue, because, well, _Spencer_. 

"Fuck, that took you a really long time," Spencer says and he puts down his beer on the coffee table, at a safe distance, and Brendon's having problems understanding because that was a yes, right? That probably was a yes, because Spencer's pulling Brendon onto his lap, burying his hands in Brendon's hair, and then they're making out. 

Spencer's a good kisser. Brendon's known this—he's kissed Spencer before, when they were young and drunk, but never with this much _intent_ , and his entire world shrinks down to Spencer's mouth, Spencer's tongue and Spencer's hands. And Spencer's erection. 

Brendon bears down experimentally, grinding his hips, and he's rewarded by Spencer moaning loudly. "God, Brendon," Spencer gasps. "If you want to take this further, we should move this party."

Brendon's down with this. Except for the part where he has to _let go_ of Spencer so they can get up. 

The trip to Brendon's bedroom takes a bit longer than usual because Brendon can't keep his hands off of Spencer, like he has to make sure Spencer's still here. 

When they finally fall onto Brendon's bed, they're both breathing hard and Brendon feels like he's going to explode. "Now, now, now," he chants, fumbling for the bottle of lube he keeps in his nightstand. " _Now_."

Spencer laughs. "You're pretty demanding."

Spencer's gentler than Brendon expects. When he pushes one finger into Brendon, his kisses turn sweet and soft until Brendon relaxes and opens up. 

By the time Spencer actually starts to fuck Brendon, Brendon feels like he's going to come any second now. "Just breathe," Spencer tells him. He's keeping it to slow shallow thrusts and Brendon would beg him to go faster, but the only thing he keeps saying is Spencer's name, like he can’t say anything else.

"Spencer," he moans, when Spencer pushes in all the way for the first time, stopping for a moment to let Brendon adjust. "Spencer," when he hits Brendon's prostate, when he finally starts fucking Brendon in earnest, his thighs slapping against Brendon's ass. 

Brendon gets lost in the cacophony of their skin meeting, of his moans and gasps, of Spencer's hard breathing, the little sounds he makes. He thinks, _we're making our own song right now_ , and comes before he's finished the thought. 

Spencer whimpers and picks up his pace, and Brendon holds on to him, coaxes him into letting go. 

"Come on," Brendon says, "come for me, okay." Spencer comes quietly, his mouth pressed against Brendon's neck. 

They just lie there, unwilling to move. Brendon doesn't want to let go of Spencer when Spencer pulls out gently. But Spencer just turns away for long enough to get rid of the condom and grabbing one of their shirts to clean up Brendon's come from his stomach. Then he wraps himself around Brendon again. 

"I needed you," Brendon says quietly, much later.

"You always had me," Spencer mumbles. 

Brendon kisses Spencer's forehead and thinks, _I needed you by my side._

~~~***~~~

"Dude," Pete says. "Really?"

Brendon shuffles his feet. "I just wanted to try something," he says.

"To get him out of his block," Spencer says. 

"I was desperate," Brendon says.

"He's started writing every morning," Spencer says. Thankfully he leaves out the part where the first song Brendon wrote was called _I Fucked Spencer Smith and All I Got were these Awesome Bruises_. Brendon has a thing for being held down, and as it happens, Spencer has a thing for holding people down. It's pretty awesome, but probably not one of the songs that will make the cut for the record. "It really helped."

Pete holds up his hands. "No judging happening here," he says. "I usually have too many words in me, but I can get how having none can be just as bad."

Spencer grins. "So do you want to hear it?"

Pete does. After he's listened to the demo, he's silent. Brendon's holding his breath—what if Pete doesn't like it? If he says that, no, they can't use it and—

"Dude, breathe," Pete says. "Uh, so this will be the song about the split?"

"It's not," Brendon says. 

Spencer says, "It's about two people breaking up and—oh." He turns to Brendon. 

"I don't want it to be about the split," Brendon says.

Pete snorts. "As if people are not going to interpret that song however they want." He gets up. "But I like it. Good work." He pats Brendon's shoulders. 

Brendon erupts into giggles because—he knows Pete's trying to be supportive and stuff, but he has baby food on his shirt and his hair's standing on end and he's not wearing shoes. 

"Are you done working now?" Ashlee's standing in the patio door with Bronx on her hips. "Because I need to go to Target and could use some babysitters."

"Hi Bronx," Spencer says immediately. "We're totally done working."

Ashlee beams at them. "Then you're on toddler duty."

~~~***~~~

After an afternoon of keeping Bronx occupied—Spencer continues Patrick's quest of turning Bronx into a drummer—Brendon feels good and relaxed. He drags Spencer over to his couch for ‘cuddling and making out’.

Spencer laughs as Brendon pushes him down. "Do we have to schedule this now?"

Brendon snorts. "No." He climbs on top of Spencer, wriggling around until he's comfortable. "But I like having your attention all for myself."

Spencer pulls Brendon in for a soft kiss. "You have it."

"I know."

They trade kisses until their lips are red and swollen. Brendon puts his head down on Spencer's chest, closes his eyes and listens for Spencer's heartbeat. "You make life easier," he whispers. "With you, everything's easier."

"I love you, too," Spencer says. 

Brendon smiles and moves to press a kiss against Spencer's cheek. "Reinvent love," he giggles. 

"You," Spencer says, smiling. Then he flips them over and shows Brendon what he means by love.


End file.
